Slow
by Gemenied
Summary: In the shadowy comfort of her home they do what they've done so many times before.


**Title: **Slow

**Rating: **T (only allusions...nothing definite)

**Disclaimer: **I don't own the characters, the story owns itself this time and I don't own the song. All three of them just had a bit of fun with me.

**Summary: **In the shadowy comfort of her home they do what they've so many times before.

**A/N: **This is a story where I can't tell you how and why it happened. While writing it I lost control over where it was going. The story itself took over. Make from this what you like. :o) It is for Joodiff and for CatS81. Enjoy, ladies! And of course and always, it is for ShadowSamurai83 - my awesome beta!

**But for all of you - ENJOY! the madness.  
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><p><strong>Slow<strong>

_Slow this right down  
>Don't burn it out<br>Don't let it show  
>Slow<br>Oh but my heart is racing  
>To hold your gaze and<br>let it go_

Words fly back and forth with the ease of a well-hit tennis ball, making their conversation a witty battle. Sometimes, though, their words ricochet off the walls in an odd angle that is impossible to meet. Like verbal squash.

They banter as they have done for nine years, give or take. They've done it in his office, in hers, in the outer office, the lab, her house and, on rare occasions, at his. There have always been pauses, awkward due to the overwhelmingly personal turn their conversation suddenly took. Almost every time they finagled their way out of the situation with some off-colour remark or a witty repartee.

Most of the time it worked. Not completely, but at least well enough so that neither of them would have to disclose any amount of emotional truth that they are both too frightened to admit. It has given their relationship a constant, underlying frustration which they both ignore, but a careful watcher can't help but notice.

Years have gone by in that fashion and they'd both claim that it has been comfortable enough.

Tragedies and near-disasters have wizened and humbled them. It has made them aware of a universal truth in the nature of their attachment.

But it hasn't freed up their courage to do something. That moment is still to come, though it is doubtful that the all-changing moment will come tonight.

They are bantering again, relaxedly settled on her living room sofa, their feet up on the low coffee table. There is a half-empty bottle of red on the table, lighter and softer than before. She's gone through a life-altering health scare and that changed a few things, not least their habit of sitting with each other. It's no longer one on the sofa, one on the armchair. Now, it's much closer.

They've had home-cooked dinner in her kitchen - a fairly new habit and scarily domestic, but they don't complain - they are having wine. It's warm in the house and soothingly shadowy.

Comfortable.

At least, it was until his jesting question has pushed the proverbial elephant right back into the room.

Both of them are painfully aware of it, not least because he's asked this particular question before. Back then she avoided it by 'elegantly' succumbing to the side effects of her treatment, but the fact that he has repeated it - even though it sounds jesting - is shouted proof of just how much he is invested in it and how much her non-answer bothers him.

He is - a very well-known fact - as unpredictable as mercury, but - as not only he is beginning to discover - she is unbelievably enigmatic.

A mystery.

It is something that floors him, the knowledge that when her asks her about any possible or impossible misdeed of youth, she will have done it - and then some. It is the realization that the calm, learned and serene professional rushed through all the sex, drugs and rock 'n roll the 60s and 70s had to offer. While he chased the propriety of conservative averageness to climb the career ladder of the Met faster, she went out and partied. Hard!

That is deflating to his ego, to his self-perception as the independent, autonomous free spirit, not to be cowed, not to be chained, not to be bent. Even more so because she deals with it with a sheepish smile and a shrug. To her, it's all water under the bridge now.

"So, did you?" he asks again, thus repeating an inquiry that is, at best, impertinent coming from a colleague and casual acquaintance.

But they are far more than that, heading inevitably for long term commitment. So in hindsight this will be a conversation in which they have laid open certain preferences and experiences. It will pave the way for a surprisingly open, egalitarian and relaxed sexual relationship when the time comes.

In reply to his question she gives him a long look, as if to gauge with just how much evasion she can get away. He begins to doubt a truthful answer, when she shrugs and smiles sheepishly. "There were a few during 'bigger events', nothing serious or pre-mediated."

Even if her voice had not emphasised the 'bigger events', he would have gotten the picture, his mind suddenly aflame with all the images a porn-hungry teenager would be proud of. It also has a startlingly intense physical effect on him.

He prays that she doesn't notice, but of course she does.

"Turned out to be not your cup of tea?" he asks gruffly to hide his own reaction and nervousness at her reply.

Once again she shrugs. "It was a certain time with a certain atmosphere and certain situations. When that was gone, it was over. Didn't happen again".

"Never been tempted again?"

She's silent for a while, maybe contemplating her answer, maybe only wondering how to word it so he will understand. "I wasn't _tempted_ back then. It came out of the situation, just happened."

The sentence hangs in the air, somehow unfinished and though it frustrates him, he quickly comes to the conclusion that this bit of mystery is rather appealing.

"What about you and Frankie?" she suddenly asks, startling him. His mind can't easily see the connection between her question and their previous topic, because there is none. Unless they reduce this link to the most basic level.

Sex.

Not exactly a road he wants to go down.

"What about Frankie and me?" he asks, his confusion making him sound more defensive than strictly necessary. Their wayward former scientist is a sore point, the end of their relationship a guilt-ridden memory for him.

"She came to me once, very nervous and uneasy." The story is told with a certain fondness and amusement, thus catching his interest. "I don't really know why she was. Shortly after the Debbie Britton-thing. Never explained why she needed to tell me..."

"Tell you what?" he questions, feeling slightly ridiculous at the dread settling in his stomach.

"That you apologized." She gives him a look from the corner of her eyes. "That you felt the need to explain yourself, make her understand how you tick, why you do what you do."

"I see." He's short and non-committal, not sure what will follow.

His companion is clearly amused now and subjecting him to her devilish streak, which prolongs his suffering, by leaning forward and topping up her glass. The movement also brings a whiff of her perfume, slightly subdued by the lingering scent of curry, but undeniably there.

It's not helping.

He caves, naturally. In their unspoken contest of endurance under the barrage of needling provocation, he always loses before they even start.

"She told you about my written declaration," he finally concludes flatly.

The look she gives him over her shoulder is mocking, yet in some way inviting in a physical manner that they are beginning to inevitably explore in their increasingly heated goodnight kisses. For a moment he is tempted to abandon the pretence of 'good night' and just get on with the kissing and whatever may follow.

It seems to him that she can read his thoughts, entertains the same one, and for a moment they hang in a limbo.

Tonight is not the time, though, and the moment is broken when she speaks. Though they both make an effort to hide their disappointment, he can see it plainly in the slight sag of her shoulders, feel it in the sudden heavy exhaustion of his body. It's another chance missed and on an intellectual level they both wonder if they aren't dismissing too many.

Luckily, her voice is teasing, otherwise the situation would be painfully awkward. "Leaving written evidence, Boyd? How imprudent!"

That he didn't expect, so he only rolls his eyes in exasperation.

They are silent again, contemplating both the event and Frankie's need to tell. He tops up his glass too and they settle back against the back of the sofa. This time they are even closer together than they have been before, his free arm automatically slipped around her shoulders, pulling her into his side.

"Have you been tempted?" she asks, turning his earlier question back at him.

"Could you honestly see me doing it?" he asks, and surprisingly keeps the scoff at a minimum.

She doesn't reply immediately, a fact that makes him fidget. "Come on, Grace...," he continues after what is, to him, an interminable amount of time. "You can't really think that I..."

She moves slightly, so that she basically lies on his chest looking up at him. Her wine glass is precariously balanced in one of her hands and for an insane moment, he takes the time to contemplate how much the dry cleaning of the sofa would cost. The thought flies out of the window as he becomes aware of her position on top of him, how it presses her curves against the angles of his body. She's soft and just the kind of heavy weight on top of him that he knows he will relish in the nights to come. Her eyes are deep and mysterious, but her minute smile shaky.

"I can imagine many things, Boyd. I..." She hesitates for a moment. "...I did imagine many things."

The statement tapers off into the shadowy darkness of the room, oblique in its meaning. They seem to be back on the unspoken topic that has nothing to do with his or her sexual past and everything with their shared sexual future.

The moment elongates without a frame of time or room. It's just them, her weight on his body, her breasts pressed against his chest, her free hand that is dangerously close to a wilfully and very youthfully reacting body part of his. It's the connection they share through their gaze. In the darkness he can see the reflection of his own eyes in hers, while his brain automatically supplies that his are dark and hers blue. He's trying to read in them, to gather what she thinks, but all he can see is the play of her pupils and the intensity that conveys. Still, it's the most fascinating thing he can imagine at the moment and for the life of him he doesn't want to give it up.

Whatever it is that breaks the spell, neither can say. It is as if something has burst a bubble they were in and suddenly their other senses come back into play. He feels like coming up for air from under the water, his ears suddenly free again and able to sharply pick up on sounds.

She slightly shakes her head as if to clear the mental cobwebs and then gives him another minute smile. "Nothing beyond a few casual fumbles...," she says and it takes him a minute or so before he catches on.

And though she comes unsurprisingly close - she is Grace, after all - to the truth, he is actually a little indignant.

"Why?"

She slowly and carefully shuffles off of him, making him miss the warm presence of her body against his immediately, and sits back up. Facing the coffee table again, her back is curved as she leans forward. He notices that too, the shape, the form, and his hand itches to brush over her silhouette.

From the way she speaks, Boyd realizes that Grace is deliberately facing away from him. "Frankie came to tell me about your 'love letter'." For a moment, she smirks. "Almost apologized for it. She apologized to me that you had apologized to her..."

This time she turns and gives him a sheepishly resigned look. "She thought that it would be 'better' if I knew."

"Why?"

It's the same question as before and the response is the same enigmatic, mocking, inviting look as before.

And finally the penny drops.

"Oh."

They are silent again as the realization spreads out in the room. A little embarrassed. A little disbelieving. A little 'what the fuck?'

In the end he covers his eyes with his palm, then rubs it over his mouth and chin, before looking at her again.

Maybe tonight isn't the night. Maybe it is.

It doesn't matter, because according to Frankie Wharton it comes at least eight years later than it should have. Which is a little embarrassing. And a little amusing. And a little 'what the fuck'?

Their smiles widen and they both shrug sheepishly.

They are both, apparently, a little slow on the uptake.

_From dreams I've seen you before  
>You're so familiar<br>And everywhere I go  
>Hear me calling for your love<br>Cause if it's you  
>I will disarm you<br>And if it's you  
>Do you know how to calm me down<br>Oh let me sleep in your arms  
>Then I won't hear them singing<br>Slow_

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><p>Thank you for reading. Comments would be greatly appreciated.<em><br>_


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